


Combeferre ponders Enjolras’ lips even if he’s not the one interested in them on artistic level

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-09 01:01:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or the one where Combeferre has toughts and marker caps that he forgets what he's done with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Combeferre ponders Enjolras’ lips even if he’s not the one interested in them on artistic level

Enjolras doesn’t get discouraged. It just isn’t who he is. Sure, sometimes things don’t go according to plan, but when that happens Enjolras just rolls up his sleeves and tries to push said things back on track. He is sure of himself, he is determined, he is — well — a  _believer_.

And he definitely doesn’t sulk. Or at least Comebeferre is pretty sure that Enjolras wouldn’t appreciate anyone thinking he sulks.

But Combeferre also aims to be fair — and, to be fair, Enjolras looks pretty much like he is sulking right now.

It’s all because of his bottom lip, Combeferre thinks soberly. It’s thick and quite often curls just a bit, but with Enjolras’ furrowed brow and sharp eyes it gives him a severe, serious look. The problem — but it’s not necessarily a problem, not quite — the  _thing_ , then, is that when his face relaxes and he loses the fierceness of his gaze, he looks a lot like he was simply pouting. Sulking.  _Something_.

Enjolras makes a questioning noise in his throat, and it’s only then that Combeferre notices he’s been staring at his friend’s lips for the past few minutes now.

“No,” he says before the question has a chance to be better asked, and it’s apparently enough because Enjolras nods and comes back to looking at the pamphlet in his hand.

Sulkily.

“I could add more colour,” Grantaire suggests, his tone half-mocking, saving the other half for sounding just tired. They are all tired and, Combeferre belatedly realizes, maybe that’s the reason behind Enjolras’ much unusual look.

He tries to count in his head; he himself has been up and about for something like thirty five hours, the result of exams and the recent problem of people being not quite as interested in their newest cause as they hoped for. For Enjolras it’s been probably longer, considering that he had class early in the morning yesterday — the last in the semester, that he definitely wouldn’t skip. As for Grantaire, it’s hard to tell, mostly because his schedule is so frantic (and Combeferre wonders just when he got to be so aware of it) that it’s no use trying to decipher when and where he is and what he’s doing.

The three of them are sitting huddled together by a round table in their favourite pub. It’s blissfully, and not unusually, empty, if you don’t count them and Gitte — a tiny, dreamy thing of a girl who works here and who never quite meets anyone’s eyes. When they got seated she made an attempt at bringing them some beer, but Combeferre thankfully noticed before Grantaire and shook his head no.

She brought them cocoa instead.

Enjolras looks uncharacteristically indecisive for a few moments, then nods intently, as if Grantaire’s question was meant to be taken seriously. “More colour would make it look,” he seems to think for a bit, before managing finally, “catchy.”

Grantaire perks up at this, for reasons known only to him. “Attractive,” he says, staring a bit too intently at Enjolras, who doesn’t look at him at all.

Combeferre makes a desperate grab for markers that Grantaire left all over the table because that seems like just the right course of action. He ends up with a bunch of caps instead, and decides that he really needs to get some sleep soon.

Enjolras’ bottom lip curls further. To be honest Combeferre is a little bit amazed that it can do that.

“Attractive,” he repeats after Grantaire, frowns, and there, at last there’s a familiar disdain in his voice and on his face. It’s also a right time for Combeferre to say that there’s really nothing wrong with being a little flashy to help the cause, and to definitely  _not_ mention anything about Enjolras being pretty flashy himself without realizing it, anyway.

But Combeferre, even though he is here just to be sort of a moral support and a voice of reason between Enjolras’ easy exasperation and Grantaire’s— and  _Grantaire_ , stays silent and shoves one of the caps on his pinky finger.

Because he isn’t Enjolras; because he can get temporarily discouraged; because there is a time when your exams just started, your best pal has a staring contest with a pamphlet, and a guy so desperately into him it’s a little (a lot) embarrassing to watch keeps doing everything in his power to make himself seem as unappealing as possible — and you just want to give up.

Predictably no one pays him any mind. Grantaire grabs one of the uncapped markers and quickly draws, or simply circles something on the pamphlet still in Enjolras’ hand. Either way the frown on Enjolras’ face eases a bit and Combeferre carefully doesn’t notice how he doesn’t move away from Grantaire pressing to his side. A few months ago he would have, but it was before Grantaire, quite unexpectedly, offered them his artistic services.

Which was good, considering that up until that point they only had Jehan, who was completely immune to Enjolras’ disapproval, when Grantaire is, well… anything but.

Even if he is still Grantaire, what he demonstrates right this instant, to Combeferre’s quiet horror, clapping Enjolras on his upper arm. “Cheer up, they’ll be the perfect pamphlets for masses — we’ll make ‘em all pretty.”

Enjolras just blinks slowly, looking surprised and offended at the same time. “This isn’t what— and I don’t need to cheer  _up_. I’m on the perfectly leveled amount of cheer.”

Grantaire just looks at him, his face somewhere between amusement and, god help them all, worry. “ _Leveled amount of cheer_ ”, he says, and in his mouth it sounds exactly as it is — ridiculous and vaguely distressing. Enjolras’ neck flushes a little and in this moment Combeferre knows the world has come to an end.

“I think we should all just go get some rest,” he says, at the very last, and Enjolras takes the opportunity to drown the rest of his cocoa, most likely in a feeble attempt to hide his quickly rising blush. Grantaire still doesn’t look ready to let this go — where does he ever? — so Combeferre straightens up and goes for his most authoritative voice. “I’ll get those to my place,” he says and extends his hand, knowing that trusting Grantaire with the pamphlets, even if they were to be modified in the end, doesn’t sound like the best idea, and Enjolras has enough problems as it is—

And then suddenly Enjolras makes a surprised sound and, as he’s in the middle of taking a drink, chokes quite spectacularly, snorting most of it through his nose.

Grantaire gasps, jerking away when Enjolras starts spluttering and bends down, one hand clasped against his face, the other one clanking the cup against the table and then flailing urgently in the air; a tissue, he probably wants a tissue—

Combefferre is about to madly search through his pockets, content to let Grantiare slap Enjolras on the back (what’s really useless given the situation, even though Enjolras is making rather alarming wheezing noises), when he notices his hand.

Or rather his fingers, which are decorated with colorful marker caps.

He stares at them without comprehension, long enough for Gitte to come to the rescue with paper towels and her non-committal, faraway look. It’s only when Enjolras starts pushing frantic Grantaire away while trying to wipe the cocoa from his chin that Combeferre sits heavily on his chair, without any memory of getting up in the first place.

Grantaire finally moves back to his own seat too, his shoulders shaking, and Combeferre realizes that he was less frantic and more trying not to burst out laughing. He quickly starts to— uncap his fingers, and mostly succeeds, with only one cap stubbornly staying on his middle finger, apparently stuck. He hides his hand under the table and forces himself to look at Enjolras’ very red face.

They look deeply into each other’s eyes until Grantaire just lays his head on the table, laughing openly. As if on cue Enjolras’ mouth twitch upwards and he once again hides his face behind his hand, but not enough to cover the half-resigned, half-embarrassed smile.

Combeferre’s subtle tugging under the table does nothing to get his last finger free, but considering everything – Enjolras’ face when it was half-covered in cocoa definitely, but his little smile right now particularly – he deems it a worthy sacrifice.


End file.
